


My kind of Experiment

by Kaiseilin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Licking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiseilin/pseuds/Kaiseilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John discovers Sherlock loves his tongue. He wants to know just how much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My kind of Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a drawing by reapersun on tumblr: http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/22583408718/this-taste-its-of-a-consulting-detective

John had noticed it the last time they had had sex. After a case that left Sherlock so giddy with triumph and contentment, he practically skipped home with an undamageable grin on his face. It actually wasn't at times like this that he was immediately on John like lightning the minute they were through the door, like most might think. Sherlock didn't like to be touched when he was on a high and John didn't like to touch him. Sex calmed him, obliterated his mind, left him blank and serene and content in a different way. Sherlock spent so much of his time in dark moods that the pre-case euphoria was good for him, John didn't want to calm that down.

 

Afterwards though. After the triumph and some food and a few hours of smug grinning and perhaps even some sleeping, Sherlock would seek him. John, ever there for him, would accept. Post-case sex was deep and slow and carnal. It was there to reassure, reinforce, reconsecrate. John would call him brilliant. Sherlock unwound at times like these, more than ever. With a case just out of his head and a brief period of sanctuary, Sherlock could feel everything.

 

And that's when John noticed, Sherlock loved to be licked.

 

He already knew Sherlock loved his tongue because the more oral John was, the louder his consulting detective was. Though, this was different, it wasn't open mouthed kisses, nips or drags of his tongue and lips that did it. It was when John used his tongue, _only_ the tongue, and _licked_ a line up the top of Sherlock's spine, that the man was reduced to shudders and coming in his hand not a minute later. 

 

Sherlock loved experiments, and John loved them too, John loved experiments  _on Sherlock_ . Sherlock who didn't know his own body, had never tried to know, deemed it unimportant for so long. Once John had accepted he loved this man and once Sherlock had accepted, he wanted to teach him just how brilliant he could feel. He wanted to unleash every kink, every good feeling in the man's body, teach him how to find release in all the best ways for  _him_ as well as for  _them_ . Sherlock was fascinating. Sometimes too much so, but John didn't mind. He knew Sherlock could turn on and off at the flick of a switch with life in general so he wasn't expecting anything different in the bedroom. Sherlock would want nothing for weeks, then want it multiple times for days on end. He could be thoroughly up for it one minute and then his thoughts would stray to experiments and chemical formulas, his erection would go without him noticing, too lost in thought, halfway through sex. He was unpredictable, sometimes kind and gentle, sometimes cruel and harsh. As with eveyrhting else that should have scared John away, it only did more to fascinate him. 

 

And John was going to fascinate Sherlock too. Sometimes he got it wrong but it was just the wrong time. Sometimes he was just generally wrong, but most of the time, when it concerned sex, John was entirely right. What's more, it always caused such a look of surprise on Sherlock's face. He  _loved_ it. Loved shocking him, knowing more than him.

 

He was stretched out on the sofa, plucking at violin strings, not thinking in the deep sense. Content, just fed, case finished hours ago. It would not bother him now if John wanted sex.

 

John didn't. John wanted to experiment. Usually, when Sherlock liked something he  _really_ liked it. So much so that John would only have to do that one thing and he would be undone in sensation and awe alone. 

 

So he walked around the back of Sherlock's chair, leaned until his elbows were resting on the back of it, wet his lips and then dragged a hot wet tongue along the base of Sherlock's neck, behind his ear.

 

John knew he'd got it right. There was no questioning or protest. Sherlock just went very,  _very_ , still. A stillness John only found upon him when he had been struck with something new, something  _fascinating_ . He smirks to himself.

 

He does it again, licks longer, from base of his neck, near the collar, to the hairline. He has Sherlock's full attention, the violin plucking stopped, hands hovering over the strings like he couldn't move them even if he wanted. John licks harder, using the flat of his tongue just behind the earlobe and Sherlock's toes curl visibly inside his shoes, subconsciously letting his head fall one way so John could get to more.

 

Always wary of Sherlock's ability to lose interest quickly, John licks over his ear, open mouthed and hot, breathes over his work until he is certain switching off will not be an option. The detective shudders and breathes in deep through his nose, arms growing lax, violin slipping. John has him.

 

He learns that Sherlock likes it around the ears, in the ears. Fluttering a tongue lightly over them, barely touching, gains him a soft desperate noise and a hard lick inside causes a choked growl. Sherlock is sensitive.  _So_ sensitive sometimes, especially like this, when all his focus is on himself, which it rarely is. Every pore is under scrutiny, part of a data collection, so opened up and impenetrable. John is careful not to bite, or use his lips, or touch, it would disrupt the results. Just him and his tongue making Sherlock come apart.

 

He licks along his jawline and the violin hits the floor, his head lolling to the side. He finds Sherlock's eyes closed, completely focused on touch alone. He dances along his cheekbones with the tip, then flat over the temples and the detective is humming approval. He finds these areas make him placid, aroused but gently so. His neck and ears cause his legs to spread and quiver with expectancy. When Sherlock's head falls back onto the sofa, he drags a tongue over the closed lids of his eyes and is rewarded with a soft, high whine of surprise. John warms somewhere on the inside when he notices a crooked, lazy smile on the detective's face, knowing he isn't aware he's doing it. He licks across the other lid and then down the bridge of a prominent nose and Sherlock's mouth is open and waiting as he traces the tip of his tongue over his philtrum. He moves his head over the open mouth and breathes warmly, it twitches with anticipation, eyes working beneath the lids. John leaves him guessing, deducing, before skipping his mouth and licking down suddenly over his Adam's apple. 

 

The resulting groan is glorious and uncontrolled. Sherlock pushes his head back, bares his neck for John and breathes harshly. So John goes to work on the area, lavishes it from the chin down to his collarbones under the open top of his shirt. It has him writhing on the couch. John knows he's still deducing, still trying to keep control of himself. Though, not for long, it's why he's keeping Sherlock's mouth for last. He's keeping that, as the most sensitive, most carnal place, so he can shatter Sherlock's control. So he can hear him mutter half finished sentences and gasp his name like he doesn't know what else to do. So that he's so lost in the pleasure of it that he forgets he has to think.

 

Sherlock is trying,  _trying_ not to push his hips forward in arousal, trying not to push up for John's mouth. His willpower disappears when John returns to the place he'd silently asked for, silently promised. John knows he can feel it, lips hovering over his own. Tongue out, just enough, so that when he hovers down, taking his own time about it to make Sherlock's anticipation grow, and traces along the cupids bow of his lips ever so softly, the detective can do nothing but let a long desperate noise escape with the exhale he'd been holding back. 

 

The mouth is open, so John goes from top lip to bottom, passing over the hot breathing void between, saving that for now. He concentrates on every bit of the man's lips from corner to centre and back. Pushes them closed with his tongue and licking them sideways, wriggling between them until he can feel Sherlock's breath panting hot through his nose, along his neck, and the man can no longer keep them that way. They fall open and John, teasingly, licks underneath the bottom lip, breaching his body. He watches large hands clench on the chair beneath. Returns to the lips alone until the man is desperate, pushing his own tongue up in hope of meeting John's and he relents after a few moments of making him wait. He pushes a tongue down and into the needy mouth and Sherlock's whole body pushes up like it's been electrocuted, like he can't breathe. This is when John know it's possible. That he can have Sherlock coming here on the chair without either of them touching him. 

 

So he pushes deeper, lets Sherlock's searching tongue connect with his own and relishes the noises coming out of him. This is Sherlock switched off, Sherlock overwhelmed in feeling, not holding back. His hips are pushing at the air, neck craning for John's touch. John fucks his mouth with his tongue, pushes it underneath Sherlock's, behind the slightly crooked teeth, dances the tips, lightly, together. Pushes along the top as far into the mouth as he can reach, and all the while, Sherlock explodes in fractions of noise and whispers of 'John', 'yes', 'god', 'fantastic', 'John!'. As many noises as he can get out around the talented tongue loving every inch of his mouth. It's when the Doctor finds a slow, deep rhythm that he feels a slow burning at the root of his cock. John is fucking him. His lips lay parted, completely at his mercy and John is pushing in a rhythm they find often in their post-case bedroom. A rhythm that speaks to all of him, body and brain, and when it speeds with frightening knowledge of the pooling heat gripping and clawing for escape, and with it, comes a soft moan of arousal right from John into his receiving mouth, Sherlock can do nothing but release deeply, blindly through a torrent of his own sound, until there is nothing left of him.

 

When he next opens his eyes, John is seated across from him in the usual chair, there is a cup of tea next to both of them. It takes him a moment to come to his senses but from looking over them both he deduces that it had been about fifteen minutes since he'd came. John had shortly after, by his own hand. He'd cleaned up and made them tea, while Sherlock...remembered how to function again. 

 

It was that part that scared him a little, unsettled rather than scared, he'd say. Losing his senses, not being in control, not knowing what he was saying. John had reassured him through it many times, told him it was temporary and normal. Though he hated normal, he was always amazed at how John had the power to undo him. John perplexed him. He wouldn't care one bit for his own body, for needless basal pleasure if not for him. Sometimes it was enough to clear him. A reset button of sorts. Sometimes, like now, it was a pleasurable surprise and a slightly unwanted reminder of just how human he was. Sometimes being human was okay. Sometimes. 

 

John insisted. 

 

“Still hot.” John nodded towards the mug.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock answered, glad to know his voice was back to normal, if a little bit deeper. “Thank you.” He added, unsure if it carried a deeper meaning beyond the tea. He wasn't well up on this 'emotion thing'. John would know.

 

“You're welcome.” He noticed the doctor trying badly to hide a smirk behind his own mug. Yes then, he did know, and he was proud. Sherlock shot him a small frown of embarrassment. Then a small frown at his trousers – they needed changing. 

 

“Yeah I'd hurry up and shower if I were you.” John notes, far too smug for Sherlock's liking.

 

“Well done.” He retorts with as much sarcasm as possible.

 

“I know.” John replies, grin now unhidden and wide, ignoring the sarcasm. Damn innuendo. “Well done me.” _Dear god_ he was _singing_ it now, whistling as he went to wash his mug. The detective glared all the way after him, hands fisting in the couch and drinking a hot gulp a bit too hastily when he heard John turn the shower on for him and knew, just _knew_ that there was a huge 'Well done John Watson' grin still plastered along his mouth.

 

_Mouth._

 

_Oh god._

 

Sherlock's feet twitch involuntarily and he puts the mug down with a bit more force than necessary. He is going to pay for this now. Every time John licks a yoghurt lid, or the back of a spoon, or food from his fingers, or his lips...

 

He throws a pillow across the room in frustration. John will pay for this, he will suffer with body parts in the fridge for weeks. 

 

Sherlock grimaces as he sits forwards and his trousers bunch together.

 

First though he'll take that shower.


End file.
